


Not With a Bang But a Whimper

by sporklift



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, Old Fic Re-Tread, Romotica, Y2K scare, kinda romantic kinda erotic kinda both and kinda neither
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: It’s December 31, 1999 when Eddie Kaspbrak walks into a bar with something to prove and just happens to run into someone he knew a long time ago.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 28
Kudos: 297
Collections: It Faves





	Not With a Bang But a Whimper

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This is the Way the World Ends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262902) by [sporklift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift). 



> A few things for housekeeping: 
> 
> This fic is, in essence, me revisiting a fic I wrote back in 2017. It's not a sequel or a re-write, but rather a second swing at the same prompt. I do believe both fics are different enough that it won't feel redundant to read this one if you've already read the first one and vice versa. I wasn't sure how to link them on the site, so I settled for having it be "inspired by" the old fic, and hopefully that's not too pretentious a thing to do with your own work.
> 
> I was, like, 5 during the Y2K scare. I did my research but it's possible I've mischaracterized the hype a bit. So. Fair warning to those of you who remember it differently than I do. 
> 
> A little bit ago, I uploaded an earlier draft of this. Looking it over, I realized I missed some pretty basic copyediting stuff, took it down and....added...like...9 pages. Oops. 
> 
> **And FINALLY** , canon compliance. This can either take place in an AU where the Losers forget about It but not about each other. Or it can take place in an AU where It does not exist at all. Reader's choice! 
> 
> Okay, that's enough yammering from me. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the fic!

Annoyingly, Eddie Kaspbrak has to show his I.D at the door. On the one hand, he gets it. He’s only twenty-three. That's technically still young enough to _expect_ to have to show his I.D. It’s New Year's Eve. Every bartender in the country has their work cut out for them. They won't have enough time to check for anything but a black X on the back of a hand. 

On the other hand, it fucking stings. The trio of sequined skirts in front of him in line hadn’t had to show their licenses. Why the fuck is the bouncer being _choosy?_ And with what fucking criteria? Eddie might look a little young for his age, but does he honestly look like someone who would try to sneak into a dive bar in Chelsea on New Year’s Eve just to buy a $10 beer? 

He’s wearing a hoodie over a polo shirt for fuck’s sake. 

But on the other hand, policy is policy and if the bouncer is willing to risk the liquor license because of three pairs of bare legs, that’s not Eddie’s problem. 

He’s only here, anyway, because the guys in the office recommended the place and, if he wasn’t _here,_ he’d just hole himself up in his apartment, in bed by ten, and wake up in the new millennium. (He thinks that Richie Tozier, were he here, would ask him if he’s ever heard of fun, or parties, or celebrating.) 

And so, because Eddie Kaspbrak has, in fact, heard of fun, he’s at a bar.

He’s at a bar, so he won’t be alone thinking about the millennium ending and all the computers crashing. 

Eddie pays extra for a gin and tonic instead of a beer because it’s a special occasion. He then orients himself in the fog of tobacco smoke. There’s deflating helium balloons on tables, black and gold, and silver and white, bobbing, hovering five feet off the ground. They dot the banner drooping over the stage. Reflective streamers have lost their luster in the smog and Eddie pushes through it, trying to find a small table without people staring dumbly at the guitar-strapped duo singing Sugar Ray on stage. It's easier said than done. There's apparently, a sustainable market for open-mic nights around here. 

He doesn’t belong in a place like this. He’s never known what to do with bohemian charm as a rule, and especially not _this kind._ There are men in shimmering open shirts and women with dangerous eyes and sleek dresses in every corner. When Eddie finally finds an open table, it's just off the stage and distressingly close to the speakers. 

There are no drums on the stage, beside the lonely piano, and so, he figures, he won’t blow out his eardrums if he takes the seat. As he’s doing so, the mic passes between the guitar-duo into the hands of a woman in a thin-tied pantsuit. “All right! It’s 8:30 pm. We have four and a half hours until the new year!” The crowd cheers and someone wolf-whistles in the back of the bar. 

Eddie places his glass on the table and claps his hands together once. If he wants to make it home by eleven, he has four hours to make a night of this. To somehow find the allure in this place. Or, maybe, three hours if he wants to be safe. 

It’s not that Eddie thinks the _world’s_ going to end. But, statistically speaking, it’s much more likely for people to riot when they’re feeling unsafe or panicked. And it’s safe to say that ‘Panic’ has taken New York by storm. 

If the power grid goes down, and missiles detonate overseas, it’ll be chaos. Banks might fuck up and it’ll be a free-for-all, but that won’t be till tomorrow. For now, it’s only towing the tricky line between hedonism and self-preservation. 

Eddie's never been very good at that. 

Maybe he's too careless to worry if he’ll get swept up in the fray. Maybe he wants to. If Ma knew he was out tonight, she’d have a fucking aneurysm and a heart attack all at once. Eddie's forgotten that he’s fragile and that people are dangerous. She'd remind him of that, sure enough. Like how she reminds him every day how dangerous it is to live alone, and how sad she is seeing him risking so much, floundering in his attempts, playing-pretend with every Grown-Up turn. 

And, maybe that’s really why he’s here. Not because the guys from the office said it doesn’t get too rowdy here. Not because he wants to make himself stay up late. But because he’s got this idea in his head that he could come out in New York, at night, during the End Times and, maybe, outrun armageddon. 

But that’s fucking stupid. 

He focuses back on the stage, pulling his glass to his lips and letting the gin bite into his mouth. 

The emcee laughs about something Eddie didn’t hear, and says, “All right! So next on the docket, we have some great comedy ahead of us.” 

'Great' and comedy usually don't go very well together. Eddie rubs a circle into the condensation on his glass. 

“Please give a warm round of applause for Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier!” 

Eddie coughs, choking on his drink. He must’ve heard that wrong. 

The room fills with soft applause. Eddie’s looking up and over, to the cloudy dark corner of the stage as a gumby set of limbs bounces over, walking like he’s got a song in his head. 

And he gets to the stage, and - absolutely - that’s fucking Richie. 

How did he even get here? Wasn't he supposed to be in L.A, trying not to cuss on live radio? Eddie hasn’t heard from him in years. And, here he is, right the fuck in front of Eddie, standing in the white spotlight of this dingy, smoky bar. It's Richie goddamn Tozier. 

His hair is disheveled, he has unkempt stubble on his face, and he looks so…

Different. Similar. Messy. _Much._

Richie smiles on the stage. “Did you hear all that shit they’re saying on the news? Scary as fuck, guys. All the computers in the world just loved this fuckin' century so much they want to do it over again.” There’s a small wave of laughter through the room, cresting at the stage. “But unfortunately for the rest of us, it means we might have to go back to the prehistoric shit. You know: Newspapers and talking to each other and widespread syphilis. So...I’m doing my best to finish my Bucket List tonight. I’ve already had, like, three blowjobs in the same bodega bathroom.” Someone to Eddie's left finds this wildly funny, raucous and loud in their laughter. Richie goes on. “So, I just need one more good ole fashioned N.Y.B.J and I can die a happy man. Ladies, meet me after my set.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, prickling. 

“You might think I'm full of shit, but it's so much better here on the East Coast. You’d think a blow job is a blow job no matter your geography but there’s so much less, uh, _silicone_ here. In L.A it’s like you’re sticking your dick in a mail slot…” 

Eddie’s shaking his head and brings his glass up to his lips. Richie turns, to wait for the laughter, and now Richie’s looking at him - it’s sudden, and for a beat, Eddie’s pulse throbs in his ear. 

Richie smiles wide. His teeth are a little crooked and Eddie wonders, corners of his lips twitching, how the hell he ever forgot that detail about him.

Richie blinks and then, turning back to the rest of the crowd, shakes his head, madly exaggerated. “Sorry about that, all. I got distracted. You ever just see someone in a crowd and know, deep in here,” He holds his hand over his heart to punctuate. “That you absolutely _need_ to see their mom naked?” 

Eddie’s smile disappears. He crosses his arms over his chest and makes a big show of looking pissed. Richie sees him. And, for whatever it’s worth, he winks. 

Richie finishes his five minutes to a loud percussive applause and hops off stage with the same musical quality that punctuated his bow. He’s so long that it takes no time whatsoever to get to Eddie’s table. The emcee is already announcing the next act for the open mic as Richie stands, all slack-grin with the smoke and light flashing off his lenses. “Holy shit! Eddie!” 

Eddie’s name hangs there, in the air. As though it’s a statement in itself. 

Richie shuffles his weight from one side to the other. “Are you waiting on someone?” 

“No!” Eddie says, gesturing to the arrangement of chairs around the small table. Richie takes the one next to him, and as he sits, his shoulder brushes against Eddie’s. 

Not thinking about it (very clearly not thinking about it), Eddie says, “So, what are you doing out here? I thought you were in, fuckin’, California, man.” 

“I am,” Richie says. “I just needed to get out of L.A for a while. Figured there’d be lots of cool New Year's and ‘End of the World’ shit over here. Times Square and everything.” 

“We aren’t anywhere near Times Square.” 

“It's, like, ten minutes by subway. And, anyway, I gotta show off the goods first!” 

Eddie can’t help the chortle erupting. “The _goods?”_

“Yeah. My new set. Plus, gotta let the ladies know I’m totally down for illicit bathroom blowjobs.” 

“Yeah, because women are super into that.” 

“What do you know about what women are into?” 

Eddie feels his chest tighten. He’s hot in the face. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, dickwad?” 

Richie runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Eddie can see his wheels turning, and he’s not sure he likes the direction they’re spinning. 

“Dude, there’s no shame in admitting nobody’s punched your V-card yet. But, if you wanna fix that, I’m sure someone here could help you out.” 

“I’ve had sex before, you asshole.” 

“For real?” 

Eddie nods, gruffly, over his drink. 

“No shit! With...like... _women_ , right?” 

“Fuck you! Yes, with women!” 

“Okay, okay, I was just checking. We're pretty close to the gayborhood right now.” 

“Well, then I could fuckin’ ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?” 

Richie breathes a laugh, words preparing to push out from his lips, but, the second Eddie thinks he's going to, right the fuck out of nowhere, Richie taps on the table with his knuckles. “I’m gonna grab a drink at the bar. You want another? I got this round if you get the next.” 

Eddie purses his lips, but still says, “Gin and tonic.” 

“You got it.” Richie stands, hands secured in his pockets. 

Eddie watches him leave and stews with the remainder of his drink. Well, who would have thought? Richie still throws the same punches and – to Eddie's extreme disappointment – Eddie still lets it get to him. 

It's amazing, actually, the elasticity he feels, snapping back into place. Like nothing's changed. Like everything has. 

Eddie moved away from Derry at fifteen. For a while, they all did a good job of calling one another, all of the Losers did. But weekly phone calls turned to monthly, and slowly people got busy and dropped off slowly until, after a few years, and the last few short birthday phone calls from Mike, the phone didn't ring at all. 

And, specifically, Eddie hasn't heard from Richie in four years. Back then it was at the end of a telephone wire, bickering to balance listening and talking and rushing over and around the other's words. And, during the last one when Eddie said, ' _Yeah, good luck in California, man'_ with a queasy dizzy headache and, he thought, _Goodbye_ had meant _Goodbye for Good_. The room had spun, back then. 

( _I should’ve said something.)_

And the bar's spinning now. But Eddie can at least blame it on gin. Even if he's still on his first drink. He can blame it. 

Richie returns to the table, a highball glass in either hand. In one, the gin and tonic. In the other, bourbon on the rocks. He shoots back a gulp before he takes his seat, brushing against Eddie’s shoulder like before. 

“So. What brought you out of the bomb shelter tonight?” 

Eddie glares, tightening his eyes. “That’s not funny, man. Things could really get fucked up.” 

"it's a little funny." Richie doesn’t seem to register a word of what Eddie said, because he claps his hands together and says, “You really went all overkill with this shit, didn’t you? Do you have, like, a family of generators at home? Like, a big daddy generator with a mommy generator and little bitty baby generators--” 

“ _No._ Fuck off.” It isn’t overkill if it’s _reasonable_. Sure. Eddie has a generator at home. And a backup generator. It’s just _safe._ If the power grids go down, and all hell breaks loose, nobody’s going to be laughing. There’s a very real chance that, once the date flips from ‘99 to ‘00 everything will go fucking berserk. Computers control the banks, too. Only an idiot wouldn’t take out a couple thou in cash, or whatever they’ve got in savings, just in case. It’s a real risk, and - honestly - it seems fucking negligent that Richie’s taking this so lightly. 

But, then again, Richie’s smart enough to fly by the seat of his pants. He’s always had this uncanny ability to be okay - to be more than okay - no matter what. 

He’s rubbing it in, too. With his clapping hands and wide crooked grin and cackling laugh like a contagion.

Eddie holds onto his drink like a vice and says, “It’s literally my job to know what the fuck could happen and to know what’ll decrease liability so fuck off. At least when the city’s in complete darkness I’m gonna be safe in my own fucking home with the lights on.” 

Richie quirks a brow. Over the rim of his drink, he asks, “You’re not staying out till midnight?” 

“Fuck no.” 

“So - what? You just came all the way out here for cocktails?” 

“That’s what people fucking do in bars!” 

Richie holds his palms out. If Eddie didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like surrender. “I mean, hey. You come out to a bar on New Years, grab a drink, and throw in the towel right after for your bunny slippers. Hey, I get it. Who needs fun when you’ve got _lights?_ What a way to end the millennium!” 

“We’ll see who’s fucking laughing, asshole, when the power goes out and you get your wallet stolen by the chick blowing you in the bathroom.” 

“Fuck, sounds worth it to me.” Richie elbows Eddie in the side, and Eddie can almost hear Richie's high-pitched voice from childhood, _Eds gets off a good one!_ Richie smiles that contagious crooked grin and there’s something ridiculously visible in the wetness of his inner lips as he says, “Shit. I forgot how fast you talk.” 

(It almost sounds like, “I missed you.”) 

On the stage, some college co-ed’s playing _The Piano Man_ on the keyboard. 

Eddie’s almost done with his drink. Richie’s leaning back and cracking his neck from side to side. 

Under the table, their knees touch. 

* * *

After Eddie pays for their next round, his head a little lighter than before, the emcee returns to the stage. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and announces: “All right! It’s 10:30. We have two and a half hours until midnight! Please give a warm welcome to our next performer, Paul Sheldon, and his friend, Woody!” 

Richie’s nose crinkles as the man slips onto stage, gap-toothed dummy resting on his knee. 

“What? You don’t like ventriloquists?” Eddie asks. 

“They’re fucking weird.” 

“The dummies?” 

“No, the guy. _Yes,_ the fucking dummies.” 

“What? Don't like looking in mirrors there, Rich?” 

“Har har,” Richie shoves at Eddie’s shoulder. The room spins around. He's lightheaded. 

And that, combined with the time, is more of a sign than anything else. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, “It’s getting late.” 

Richie frowns. “Ah. Gotta get back to your little generator wife, huh?” 

“Do you wanna come with?” 

And - the fucking look on Richie’s face - it looks like Eddie started speaking in tongues. His entire face collapses, his blinking mimicking the light and smoke flickering over his glasses. “You...you want me to come home with you?” 

“You going home with anybody else?” 

Richie shoots back the last of his bourbon and says, half nasal, “Mr. Kaspbrak, you’re trying to seduce me.” 

“... _what?”_

Richie's gape is endearing for all the memories it conjures up, of afternoons at the quarry, or the quiet astonishment over the phone when Richie was made salutatorian in high school. He stammers. “Y’know. _The Graduate,_ dude. Didn’t that sound a _little_ like Dustin Hoffman?” 

Actually, it sounded exactly like Dustin Hoffman. But Eddie won’t dare let that on, at least not until they’re out of the bar. He slings on his jacket and stumbles away, Richie behind him, a concerned hand on his shoulder blade. 

Normally, Eddie would push shit like that away. He’s a grown-ass man and he doesn’t need the help. He’s not even that drunk. Tipsy, sure, but he figures they could both still pass a breathalyzer. And, somehow, he gets the idea that maybe Richie’s using him as a guide for himself just as much as Richie’s trying to keep him upright. And, somehow, it’s best this way. 

Outside, the night seems brighter than the day time, for all the lights and storefronts and the din of the partygoers and soap-box prophets on the street corners, crying out about the End Times. **Y2K: IT'S COMING,** their signs yell. People pass like they can't read, caught up in champagne and sparklers. 

Eddie doesn’t know what’s worse. The people who _won’t_ think, or the people who can’t stop thinking. 

It takes five minutes to get a cab, and when they do the driver asks them, “One stop or two, boys?” 

The driver thinks they’re queer. It’s obvious enough from the stony glare in his eyes from the rearview. 

Richie’s stiff as a rod. His eyes immediately flick to Eddie and Eddie’s the one brave enough to say, “One.” 

Richie’s glued to the opposite door in the cab. He’s holding his arms over his chest and staring out the window.

They pass the piles of people, directionless in this way or that, partying or preparing for armageddon, and with nothing but a stained window at his side. and the judgemental glare of a cab driver in the front seat, Eddie feels like he’s in freefall. It's going to be a fucking long ride from Manhattan to Queens. 

It's fucking ridiculous. It's the fucking end of the world and Richie's flush on the other side of the car and the cab driver's silence sounds like an accusation. And – for what – because they're going to the same place? Together? 

Whether it's spite or pride or the realization that the world might look different tomorrow, he, Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak, decides that – no – he's not going to take it. And he's not going to act differently than he wants to just because one person in a cab looks at him funny. Fuck that. People have been looking at Eddie funny his whole fucking life. 

If the world actually does end tomorrow, Eddie's not going to let his last night of this life involve kowtowing to anyone or anything. It probably won't, for all the inevitable complications. But, _what if..._

He slides in his seat, pushed away from the window, and with a slush-snow-laced boot, taps Richie on the ankle. 

Richie's head rotates, slowly, meets Eddie's eyes. He looks over to the cab driver and then back to Eddie, his brows disappearing under the heavy frame of his glasses. 

Eddie shrugs and taps him again. He's getting gray-sludge all over the hems of Richie's jeans. Richie stares, twitching, looking around himself, and his face pulled back in something indecipherable. 

Tentative and slow, as though he's mulling it over, Richie slides over, away from the door, and returns the tap. Eddie can feel the dirty ice crystals seep through the fabric of his socks. But he's smiling about it. Richie's not curled into the door like he's ready to tuck and roll away, not anymore. His hands, tensionless, one on his knee and one on the seat between them. 

And now, they're sitting like normal people in the back of the seat. The appropriate distance between them in their seats. Richie looks back up at the driver, and because he does, Eddie looks too. 

The man's eyes are glued to the road. He's white-fisting the steering wheel. Of course, the driver might just have one of those faces, like Ma has, frozen in constant disapproval. It might be the New York-New Year's traffic. It might be the late hour. It might be that he thinks he's hauling a couple of dirty queers to some needle-filled back alleyway. Eddie isn't saying any of this out loud, but he can imagine what Richie would say if he had, _'You go right to alleyways? You know your mother wouldn't approve...'_

Well, fuck that. And fuck the cab driver too. 

Eddie puts his hand down next to him on the seat. Richie's hand twitches at the movement. Their pinkies are inches away. Sideways, Eddie throws a glance at his old friend. Richie stares forward, up to the front seat. The driver doesn't check his rearview. 

Huffing and gazing out the window, Eddie slides his hands over on the leather. It's cold. His pinky hits Richie's and Richie's hand stills. 

Maybe this wasn't a good idea. 

But then, there are fingers, warm against the outside of his knuckles. Richie's pinky intertwines with Eddie's...

It's like when they were little and, one time, they swore over their secrets and held their hands clasped for a little longer than they needed to. Every time, like this one, by way of saying, _This is okay. We're gonna be okay. We are_ _okay._

  
  


* * *

When they reach their destination, everything feels disjointed, underwater, as Eddie twists the key in the lock. The winter air is freezing, but Richie’s on his heels and he’s warm, just behind him, vibrating and hopping between his fucking slush-ruined sneakers. He hadn’t dressed for a New York winter, and Eddie has to wonder what he’d been planning to do on New Years without a heavy coat or a hat or anything because he’d not been planning for _this_.

Eddie thinks. Or he hopes. 

Maybe Richie hadn’t been joking, completely, when he was talking about getting blown in public restrooms. 

Eddie’s tongue is heavy in his mouth as he pushes the door open and flicks the light switch. 

“‘s nice,” Richie says, following Eddie’s lead to take off his shoes at the door. And then he stands there. His hands are at his sides and he’s blinking around to adjust to the light. 

Eddie can’t understand why he’s disappointed. To avoid thinking about it, he asks, “Do you want coffee or anything?” 

“What’s the anything?” 

Eddie shrugs. “Tea, water, booze, whatever.” 

“I’ll take a nightcap, righto, then.” 

“Is that the fucking British Guy?” Eddie hardly recognizes it. It’s a million times better than it was last time Richie pulled it out in front of him. Or, more distinct if nothing else in its faux authenticity. But it doesn’t sound like Richie anymore, and maybe it’s more impressive, but it’s lost its old charm by more than half. 

Richie shrugs, leaning on the countertop. Eddie pours them each a stemless glass of Riesling and he’s staring at him, as the glasses pass between their hands. 

Eddie, for all the contingencies he has to plan for on a daily fucking basis, can’t help but suppress the tight coil of anxiety, the asthmatic weight in his chest, that there’s a danger here. One he can’t identify. He doesn’t want to stand here, in the kitchen, with the bottle of Riesling and the harsh incandescents overhead. 

Richie lifts his cup. “Cheers to Y2K. May the apocalypse come fast and painlessly.” 

“I don’t think that’s what an apocalypse does.” Eddie snorts, but their glasses clink. “What do you think is gonna happen?” 

“You’re Mr. Danger. You tell me.”

“ _Mr. Danger?”_

“Oh yeah. Hit me with those survival statistics.” 

Eddie’s shakes his head and throws back a gulp of wine. He half doesn’t want to indulge the teasing, but the wine is sweet on the back of his tongue. After he can think about it, he says, “Just stay off elevators and planes at midnight and you should be _fine_ for now." 

“Are you planning on throwing me out before midnight?” 

“No.” 

“Gonna throw me on an elevator-plane or anything?” 

“What the shit is an elevator-plane? No. I’m not gonna throw you out at all.” 

“Are you gonna ask me how I like my eggs in the morning next?” Richie’s eyes are twinkling, bigger and brighter than reality through his lenses. His mouth’s twisted in a devious grin, half up. 

“Fine, dickwad. How do you like your eggs?” 

Richie exhales, and it sounds like a laugh, but Eddie can’t be sure, and he says, “Scrambled’s good.” 

“I can do that.” 

“Can you?” 

“It’s really fucking easy,” Eddie says, and he’s practically standing on Richie’s toes. He’s not sure how he got that close, or when or even and especially _why_. Richie drains the last of his wine glass. Eddie catches himself watching Richie swallow and finishes his drink, murmuring and unnecessary, added-on punctuation: “Actually.” 

“Something’s gotta be, right?” Richie asks, articulating his wine in his hand, wobbling in his wrists. He’s holding on, fingers straining against the glass. 

Where did that even come from? It doesn’t make sense. But not much about Richie’s ever made sense. 

“So, Eds. Did you wanna, like, watch the ball drop or something?” Richie asks, and he leans forward to put his dish in the sink. He slides in close to Eddie, hovering and warm, and places the glass into the steel basin. 

His face lingers, for a second, by Eddie’s ear. Eddie’s dizzy, and maybe the idea is to break the awkwardness or, maybe, he's curious. His hand flexes on Richie’s shoulder, and Richie looks at him. 

Eddie looks back and closes the distance. 

He kisses him, light, touch-and-go, and when he moves to pull away, Richie follows him, dragging for half a beat. 

“I don’t know why I did that,” Eddie says, immediately, unable to guess what the tension in his hands on the countertops means. 

_I just wanted to._

“Hey, no hard feelings. You can’t help yourself around me.” Richie says, voice a whisper like he’s reaching deep inside himself for something he can throw over his shoulders and call confidence. “‘s nothing new. I bat my eyes and all the guys come running.” 

Eddie’s about to roll his eyes but something stops him. He looks back up at Richie and there’s Something there in his face. Some hidden vulnerability hiding under his gaudy patterns and layers and the thick glass over his eyes. 

And then, it registers. 

Eddie swallows wetly. “You’ve done this before. With men.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” Richie’s voice, the soft-scared edges, reminds Eddie of sand right before it turns to glass. Fragile and translucent. 

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and he means it. “It’s not.” 

“Okay.” Richie’s voice cracks. “Cool. Awesome.” 

Eddie can hear his heart up in his ears. Richie’s warm and right here and he’s _stupidly tall_. His hands never left Richie’s shoulders and, as though on their own, they move up to the stubble lined column of his neck, and up still further. Caught here in the middle between past and future and millennium and armageddon, he slides Richie’s glasses off his face. 

“Show me.” 

Richie jolts up, dumbstruck and gaping and blinking. “What?” 

“ _Show me,_ dipshit,” Eddie repeats on a breath. “Kiss me like a man.” 

It’s soft, this second kiss. Richie has one hand on Eddie’s shoulders, like when he walked him out of the bar. But, his mouth meets Eddie’s. Their lips fit together and his are a little wet as they fall into his, and Eddie has to wonder where the fuck Richie figured out kissing, and who with, because it shouldn’t be any different than the few other times Eddie’s kissed anyone. 

In theory, all kissing should be the same. Spit and pressure and that should be that. 

But must have Richie figured something out along the line, and Eddie’s spinning, and follows his movements, the open and the close, and - at every turn, as Eddie presses forward, slides right up to the line, edges it over, thinking, each time: _This has to be as good as it gets._

At some point, it has to turn into only slobber and spit, right? At some point, erotic turns into smut and smut turns into sludge. 

But by now their mouths are open and their teeth clack together. Eddie’s got Richie by the collar and, stumbling over the mess of their feet, maneuvers them blindly away from the sink. 

Richie’s tongue swipes on the inside of Eddie’s lower lip and - like a thunderbolt - a tremor speeds through every nerve, rushing hot to his dick and Richie’s hands dart around his body, soft, quick and fleeting. 

It feels really fucking good. 

Unthinkingly, Eddie pushes Richie back against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room. Richie sighs and, there’s a laugh hidden in there somewhere, as he sticks his leg between Eddie’s thighs and breathes into his mouth, “Is that an inhaler in your pants or are you happy to see me?” 

When Eddie chokes, “Shut up” in response, he’s sure it sounds pathetic like he’s got a throat cold. He can care about that later. For now, everything feels hot, Eddie’s chest is on fire, making short muggy breaths. Richie’s mouth has always been something else, but now his tongue catches against Eddie, and his teeth press into Eddie’s bottom lip. It's a disquietingly stark reminder there’s nothing in this whole world that his mouth can’t do. 

Richie’s bright. Eddie feels it, too, this brightness, starting inside him and flying out. The brightness, it meets him halfway. 

And he is _,_ they _are,_ fucking incandescent. 

Eddie’s knees feel like rubber. But he’s not about to go swooning into anybody’s arms, not about to let the falter stick. Instead, he slips his foot between Richie’s and, twisting their bodies around, flips them so they go flying against the wall, Richie-side-first. His head hits the wood of the doorframe and his “Shit! Ow!” seems more from the shock than from pain. At least, if his smile, his laugh, or the never-ending glow of him, is any indication. 

It’s a break enough for Eddie to get a good look at Richie. The red marks on his nose from his glasses, the way he’s undone - his hair a disaster and his chest heaving and it’s beyond wild to think that _Eddie’s_ a part of something so stupidly beautiful. 

Richie looks absolutely thrilled about the whole damn thing. He’s crouched in the doorframe so their heads are level, hard as anything against Eddie’s hip, and gliding his tongue over the sharp edge of his canines, laugh caught in his mouth and Eddie half-wants to draw it out until Richie’s hands slide over his cheeks. 

“Never grew outta those dimples, huh? You’re like a fuckin’ Cabbage Patch Kid.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says through a blurting laugh. He grinds down on Richie and the groan that erupts hits his ears like a cymbal, between a manic-stirred bray and a high-needy whine. He doesn't know what to call it, but he wants to hear it again. Needs to. 

It’s annoying and endearing and everything in the world all at once, and Eddie couldn’t think of anything that’d fit Richie better if he tried. 

Caught breathless, he rests his mouth against Richie’s pulse. He catches his forehead on the scrape of stubble and hard jaw. Eddie's never felt this stubble-scratch burn against his face before. 

It sends something electric down his spine. 

“You--you okay, Eds?” Richie asks, hand soft on the side of Eddie’s head. 

“I’m doing pretty good,” Eddie says, lifting to look Richie in the eyes. 

With a loud blaring guffaw, Richie’s head hits wood on the frame again. “Shit, man. I’m about to fucking cream my pants, and you’re just doing,” He stops, makes his voice breathless and wheezing and, for a second, Eddie hears his own voice spill from Richie, “ _Pretty good.”_

With a loose unimpressive fist, Eddie gives Richie’s shoulder the world’s most affectionate half-assed punch. “Fuck you, dude.” 

“Isn’t that what we’re workin’ up to here?” 

Eddie shakes his head, sucking on his bottom lip to buy time. It looks like Richie’s staring at it, and Eddie has to wonder what he looks like through Richie’s blurry-eye-view. But, mostly, all his wondering is a distraction. From the pull and tightening under his gut, the realization that all his clothes fit way too tight and he’s leaking into his underwear like some oversexed teenager and, the thought, the ideas spinning around only make it worse. Better. Intensified. 

Richie's hands start to enclose around Eddie’s hips. Eddie feels them there, tight and gripped, like he’s standing at the edge of a guardrail. 

It's an impulse, but Eddie takes one of Richie's hands and nudges him, just at his fingertips, under the tight loop of his belt at the waistband. 

_It's okay with me. Is it okay with you? Is this okay?_

And then Richie shivers.

Like. Actually, visibly, _shivers,_ from the base of his spine and the staccato motion clips up through his head, wild-eyed and locked onto him. 

Eddie gapes. “Are you?” 

Richie stops. Still, and his mouth knots up into a frown. He blinks. “Am I what?” 

“About to...y’know…orgasm.” 

“Orgasm?” Richie’s laugh is deep in his chest and Eddie can feel the reverberation in his diaphragm. His hands slide down Eddie’s back, curve around his hip. And Eddie has no fucking control over the way he jolts into it. “That’s pretty fucking clinical.” 

“Clinical would be ‘ejaculate,’ fuckface.” 

“And, ‘Fuckface,’ Dr. K. I assume that’s a clinical term, too?” 

“Get bent,” Eddie says, but he's laughing. 

“Whatever gets your motor running, man.” Richie touches him, hand darting over his erection. Eddie whines, high pitched and curls in. Breathless and grinning, Richie adds, “Is it me?” 

It is. Always-already Richie. Eddie won’t answer, won't dare, but he kisses Richie again, harder, and braces himself on the wall for balance. And he thinks, maybe if this is apocalyptic - maybe it’s worth it. Maybe, just maybe, it’s better than the alternative or safety, of _normal._

This is certainly better than striding blindly into bars just to prove he can, just to say he did it. This is better than sitting alone at home and waiting for the final shoe to drop – power grids down, riots charging two blocks over, stocks and banks crashing, people could die – a lot of them – tonight. 

Eddie's lived his entire fucking life by the beeping of his watch and the capsules in his pill organizer. It's always been so vital – so very vital – for stability, for Eddie to keep his cool. Whenever he let those inner vibrations reverberate from the ceilings and clouds – the ones that push up against his skin and scream for release – he'll try to hit the ground running. And it's always because he's always been too stupid to recognize something as predictable a contingency as mortality. 

But what good is a watch in a world spun off its axis? Without the orders and structures that Eddie leans on, it'll be about as good as sugar pills. 

There's a chance that it'll happen, just like that. There's a chance he'll wake up tomorrow and everything will be different. Not _new,_ but different. Maybe the year 2000 will mean something big. 

Sure – it probably won't – but maybe he can let that go, hang on the promise of ‘maybe.’ 

Maybe he's like all the rest. Obsessing, forgetting, all of it. But, maybe that means he deserves the same as them too – to get close and personal with that fine line between hedonism and self-preservation. Other people do. Why not him, if he's not so different, not so fragile?

Maybe it's high time Eddie Kaspbrak hit the ground running. 

Although, the novelty of _this,_ the shudder and heavy-tongue feeling in his mouth as Richie cranes down and kisses him at his pulse point, fumbling his fingers at Eddie's belt. And maybe Eddie should help, but there's something about the nervy bob in Richie's throat, the way he's touching him like he's afraid he'll bolt, even as he's right here – weak in the knees and blindly tugging Richie away from the wall and deeper in the house... 

Richie's so fucking tall. He's a good four inches taller than Eddie, if not a little more. He's crouching forward to meet Eddie at his face. The catching glint in his blue eyes, comes this time not the mischief or goading from when they were kids, but still the strongest pull in the world. 

It's kind of intoxicating. 

“Did you, uh,” Eddie has to swallow, shaking away the thought that Richie Fucking Tozier has him so wet in the mouth. “Did you wanna keep going?” 

“Oh shit. Fuck yeah.” 

It comes so quick and blurting. Richie blushes after. Eddie's, frankly, surprised he has enough blood flow for his face and barks out a laugh. 

Disheveled and laughing still, Eddie pulls at Richie's arms to get him off the wall. They tread, slow and swaying, through the kitchen and into the living room. 

And it suddenly occurs to Eddie that he has no fucking clue what he's doing. But, if Richie knows that, he'll never fucking let Eddie live it down. 

Maybe it's that it's Richie. Richie has always had a way of making Eddie feel off-kilter and at ease all at once, easing back into the fucking needy way his hip bucks against Richie's hard-on

“So,” Eddie says, twisting himself out of his thoughts, dizzy without anything but Richie to hold onto. He's _here_ , right here with him, but he's also melting. Mutually, they're about to fall apart. “I'm not askin' this because I need a fucking play-by-play, just so you know. But also, I kinda need to know. Logistically. What – exactly – does that look like for you, keeping going?” 

“Well...I--um...I don't really care _how_ but,” For a second, Eddie’s completely distracted by the small slip of tongue at the corner of Richie’s mouth. He almost doesn’t hear Richie, his voice suddenly quieter, torn away from the wall and any tinge or twang of Trashmouth or Others, Richie -- and it’s definitely _Richie –_ is the one who speaks.

He says, “I kind of want you to wreck me.” 

It's Eddie's turn to shiver, and he hopes it's not as painfully obvious as it'd been when Richie had done it. 

“I mean.” Richie coughs. He's back to his usual volume, his usual pace, his usual Voice. “Like, really get in there, man. Rearrange my guts. I don't wanna walk straight tomorrow.” 

“Do you really have to be so gross about it, asshole?” Eddie's nose curls. But he doesn't step away. He's not sure he wants to. 

“Ah, dagnabit, cockblocked mysel' aga'n,” Richie says, hyperbolic Southern accent jammed between his teeth. “S'umtimes I dunno why I gotta be so--” 

“Rich.” 

“Yessir, Edward, sir?” 

“Shut up.” And Eddie might as well be saying, ' _Come back,'_ because, for all their charms, any and all Voices Richie has perfected over the years aren't good enough, not like his regular voice is. 

Instead of saying so, Eddie throws his arms around Richie's neck and kisses him, and Richie kisses back with his hands dipping under Eddie's shirts. His hands are big and broad and softer than Eddie thought they'd be, more nervous-flighty in the fingertips. 

Eddie's bedroom is down the hall. They're not going to make it that far. Instead, he throws Richie down on the couch, peels his leather jacket off his arms on the way down. Richie flails as he's falling, his limbs every which way, and he reaches out for him again. 

Eddie obliges, because he can't not, and rips Richie's shirt up over his head. It's clumsy as shit and his shirt gets caught on his head and they're laughing again. 

Richie's pale and soft at the edges, his stomach moves fast and shallow with his breaths. He has a thin layer of hair on his chest and down under his navel.

The last time Eddie saw him without a shirt, they were kids and swimming and he was scrawny and the only glances Eddie sent him were out of a sort of enigmatic curiosity, a need to push him underwater and get him to splash him in retort. But, now, here – ten years later – the enigma's gone. He fans his hand out over Richie's chest and all he wants is to run his mouth between each divot over his ribs. 

There's a certain thrill that caresses Eddie's stomach, gliding up to his lungs – seizing them in a breathless inhale - when Richie unzips his hoodie and starts to work at the buttons on Eddie's collar. 

It's so far above the belt, and yet Eddie can't swallow away the excitement of it all. 

But he won't be – refuses to be – outdone, and starts with Richie's jeans. Slowly, through the nerves, working out the buttons and the zipper. It's hot and moving, and there's a foreign edge, here. An excitement deep in his brain stem that screams at him, _You want this – you want to look at him. You don't. You do. You definitely do. You just don't want to think about the fact that you do._

Hanging on this contradiction, Eddie finds himself asking, “Don't we need, like, stuff for this?” 

“My jacket. Left pocket.” 

Eddie knows his jaw dropped because he has to lift it to ask, “Seriously, dude?!” 

“What? Better safe than blue-balled, I always say.” 

“How often do you do this shit?” If Eddie sounds peeved, it's because he's uncomfortably tight in his pants and out of breath and, maybe just a little, green-eyed and dizzy. 

“I'm clean, if that's what you're asking.” 

It wasn't. But, in a roundabout way, Richie's response paints enough of a picture to answer his real question. Batches of scores notched in a bedpost hiding in his mind's eye. Eddie presses his lips together. “Did you wait a couple of months and get tested again after the first time? Because most people don't know that there's a window for this shit and it can cause some--” 

_“Jesus,_ Eddie. I haven't even gotten laid in months and you're talkin' like I'm a fucking petri dish or something.” 

_What?_

“You haven't? In months?” 

“Dude. Duh. Have you even fucking seen me lately?” 

“Because my fucking eyes have been closed this whole time,” Eddie retorts. Because, whatever the fuck Richie meant by that, it doesn't replace how he's so fucking magnetic and everything about him, his lanking limbs and the slight crookedness in his teeth, and the way he always moves like he's listening to music, just screams ' _Take me to bed. Turn me inside out.'_

Blinking wildly, unpredictable thoughts visibly racing through his head, Richie pulls Eddie back in. “Well, are you gonna screw me or what?” 

Eddie doesn’t hide his laugh, can’t be bothered to, as they fall back into their pattern of nips, soft kisses and electrifying slides of tongue is just as exciting as it was. Eddie doesn't know how much time passed, but opens his fly and shoves Richie's jeans down to his knees. He's heaving and gorgeous and stretched against the leather on the couch. His boxers, damp and tented, have dozens of little Bugs Bunnys and Daffy Ducks on them. 

The juxtaposition has all of Eddie's muscles contracting. It's confusing as shit, but he'll bring himself to care later. 

Their eyes meet. Eddie kisses Richie's jaw, and with a shaky bob of Richie's head, Eddie rolls the fabric down his thighs. 

“Well, shit.” Eddie breathes, and Richie gnaws on his lip and takes the liberty of kicking away the last of his clothes. 

Richie's naked, and he's sweating and hot. He is hard and pointed in the air, and the image of it, much less the idea of touching it, skin-on-skin, flips Eddie’s stomach over. 

“You gonna let me be the only one bare-assing it?” Richie says, soft and nervous laugh there, ready on his tongue. 

Eddie smirks and, gnawing the walls inside his mouth, pulls his belt through all the loops. Richie stares, and Eddie wonders if he realizes what he's doing, licks his lips. Eddie knows it's inelegant, but hoops his thumbs under his waistbands and pulls down his khakis and boxer-briefs at once. The air hits him, not cold, but shocking without the friction. It spells relief, agitation, like his body can't differentiate what it _should_ want from what it _does_ want. 

He hops out of his pants gracelessly. He'd be embarrassed, but Richie's pulled him back on top of him. And he's straddling Richie and Richie's pressing against his hip, hot skin and Richie's hand circles around him. 

He arches his back, hissing low in his throat, and collapses onto his hands. Richie smiles and nips at Eddie's ear. Eddie sees stars.

It's only a quick moment they wrench apart. Richie reaches down to grab his jacket from the floor. Eddie watches him, sparking and twitching, waiting for some approximate _Ready, Set, Go..._

And Richie returns to Eddie, like a boomerang, a soft laugh as he tosses a small purple tube and foil square between his fingers – nervous more than affected – asks, “Are you sure?” 

He's so quiet. It almost knocks Eddie off his feet, nodding. “Are you?” 

“Yeah, pretty much been ready for, like, seven years.” 

“Okay, then. Let's...do it.” 

And, maybe that's the least sexy thing Eddie could've said. But Richie sinks on his knees over Eddie's lap. His legs are long and the coarse hairs slide against Eddie's hips. His stomach and the hard lines on his clavicle smush against him, warm and breathing and pounding heartbeat tangible there, against Eddie's own. 

For a second, he's so distracted with the feeling of Richie's chest flush against him, he doesn't realize that one of Richie's hands has left his shoulder. 

Then Richie's breathing shifts, one hand behind his back. He hisses and licks at the corner of Eddie's mouth.

Eddie has to break away. He stares at the hard line of Richie's lip, the edges of his teeth on the bottom. The entrancing hard and soft lines of his mouth. 

Richie hisses again, his eyes shut. He shifts. 

“Wait.” Eddie blinks. “Are you...? 

“Yeah.” Richie nods, panting, a slight groan. “Why? Did you wanna...?” 

Eddie can't even answer. _Holy shit_. He has to swallow all the spit that floods over his tongue. His hips jut, involuntarily, and Richie shifts. 

“Eds? You good? You wanna stop?” 

“We're not fucking stopping, Richie,” Eddie says, in one breath. He leans forward, wraps his own hands around Richie. His skin is hot and he's leaking and beautiful and hissing, whining long strings of vowels, the lightest traces of “ _Fuck,”_ on his lips. 

Eddie's dazed. He's all tight and pent-up and he's worried he's going to come before they can do anything, just sitting here, so close he can feel his body heat, Richie's dick in his hand and his hip pressed up to him. 

Eddie doesn't hear the condom unwrap, but Richie's hand slides over him, coated slick and viscous, and the latex clings snug. And Eddie can hear his heartbeat, his lungs like plastic buoys in his throat. He slides his thumb over him, and Eddie groans and 

He launches forward. Richie hits the armrest on the couch. Eddie falls, half off the couch and half on it. one knee digging between the couch cushions, but somehow they're coming together again. Richie's folded in on himself, knees knocked open, forward to kiss at Eddie's neck, but holding him nevertheless. 

It's an awkward position. But Richie hooks his thighs around Eddie's middle and – that's that. 

It takes a moment, but they're together. Richie surrounds him. And Eddie keens, arcs, and allows the sensation to rock him. The heat, the tingling dizziness. Richie feels...like _Richie,_ and it's mobile, exciting, warm, and elating. He sucks a kiss from Richie's mouth. Richie's lips are pulled back smiling, exhausted and out of breath. He licks between Eddie's lips, muttering his name and other sweet sounds and groaning senseless vowels. Eddie grits his teeth as sensation introduces himself. 

And, together, they move. 

Richie's head throws back, he's sighing and, it doesn't take long before he's moaning and blurting out loud sighs. “Oh...oh, shit...Eddie—I—this's...” 

“Yeah,” Eddie manages to mutter, not even sure why. He's circling Richie's back with one arm and jerks him with the other. And, Richie bucks biting down on Eddie's shoulder. The stun, there, gets them moving, a faster pace. 

The moments melt one into the other and Eddie ducks his head into the crook of Richie’s neck, kisses him on his pulse. At some point, Richie throws himself back and Eddie follows, crouched over and still moving, and blindly moves forward, all tension and friction and the blue in Richie’s eyes. It's building, down under his gut, ignition and flame with its urgency. 

Time passes and Eddie can’t imagine how much, only focusing on how the heat builds, apexes and rushes. 

And then, euphoria sweeps through his body, thrumming down his gut. Eyes wrinkled shut and pressing forward, orgasm rocking through his core, Eddie's whole world flushes white. He sputters and pistons, flushing warmth and tense through his toes. The world moves under him, Richie kissing him like crazy. 

He has to steady himself, in this awkward half-crouch, to get Richie there before he goes soft. 

Worrying doesn't seem necessary. Richie adds his own hand to the machine, twists with practiced fingers, over himself and – in the next instant – Richie's eyes are shut. His mouth goes wide, tense and hissing, and Eddie feels something hot splatter against his stomach, and with a low grunt, Richie goes weak.

He opens his mouth, and Eddie thinks he's about to say something – something dumb and joking – but instead, he takes Eddie's hand. He kisses his palm and, with sleepy drugged softness, presses his forehead against Eddie's chest. 

“Shit,” He blurts. Eddie laughs. He can't help it.

“Hey, I'll just be a sec, okay?” 

Slow and stupefied, Eddie tosses the condom into the trash can in the bathroom. He lives alone, but he’ll still want to take out the trash immediately tomorrow, just in case Ma stops by unannounced for lunch. He washes his hands for good measure. His hair is all over the place, he’s red in the cheeks. His mouth is swollen. He’s got two reddening hickeys on his shoulders. 

And he doesn't know when he's ever felt this fucking good before. 

If Eddie had ever made a list of all the things he wouldn’t do, he had just gone and done more than half of them, and - somehow - he can still find himself in the outline. It’s still the same, unkempt details notwithstanding. He almost wants to keep trying to make out the whole picture, to see how far he can go and still see Eddie Kaspbrak in this reflection, this torn-up elated version of himself. 

But, instead, he wrings a washcloth in the sink and leaves the bathroom with it in hand. 

Richie's lying there, naked and still shimmering sweaty with a glass of water in his hand. He must have gone to the kitchen and put his glasses back on while Eddie was away. And when he sees Eddie returning, he laughs. “Wow, you waste _no_ time, huh?” 

“You're not getting spunk all over my couch, dude,” Eddie says, throwing the washcloth to Richie, with a half-hearted eye roll. 

But he takes the seat next to Richie anyway. And once he's cleaned, they're here, next to each other. Richie offers him a drink from the glass. They don't decide anything, one way or another, but Richie slides under his arm, down against Eddie's side, and maybe it's not conventional, but he's warm and Eddie can't help but smile as he slumps down, beside him. “Is this cool?” 

“It's cool.” 

And, now they're sitting still. Richie's head is on Eddie's shoulder, and he's playing with Eddie's fingertips and he's not saying anything. Eddie likes how Richie's hands feel – big and expansive – exploring his own, as though he'll find something there. It'd be cloying if not for the sleepy edge collecting over them, the forgetful haze falling there, between the warm sweat of their bodies and the phantom feeling still whispering against Eddie's skin. 

And – of course – the question in the air hangs. _What next?_

It's the theme of the night. They have, oh, thirty more minutes before the computers might crash. The nineties are almost over. And, here are Eddie and Richie, naked and curled up into one another, and Eddie doesn't know what to do about it. 

Normally, Eddie thinks, this would be the _Thank-You-Ma'am_ portion of the evening. If Richie were some anonymous person Eddie met in a bar, and if somehow Eddie had still taken him home (he thinks, he might’ve), it'd be too late to feel good about sending him home in the apocalypse. Maybe Richie would insist on leaving so he'd be home before the power goes out. Or they'd go a second time and wait for the fireworks. 

If he and Richie were lovers, in whatever foreign universe that could be, maybe they'd put on some popcorn and finish off with _Rockin' New Year's Eve_ in their pajamas and going over the protocol to use the propane for the generators and the food stock, just in case people start raiding The Food Emporium. Maybe they'd have champagne and they would make love to each other in a bed they called theirs. 

But they’re neither. They’re almost both. And Eddie can't think of what to do next. 

This is Richie. The guy who wouldn't get out of the hammock after they'd made a verbal agreement. Who'd share his ice cream and knock Eddie off his bike and help him back up again afterward. He always left Eddie's sides aching. 

And then they got older and it got harder to figure out where that ache came from. But they pushed through it, said goodbye and let time do what it would to their memories. And all it did was bring them back together for this...shapeless anomaly, lying together, resting, exhausted. 

After they regain their breaths, Richie groaning about needing a nap, they pull on their underwear. For whatever it's worth, they do pop the popcorn. They do put on _Rockin' New Year's Eve_. 

Richie even asks Eddie about how his generators work. He pretends to fall asleep while Eddie’s explaining, but he asks. 

The glass ball drops. Fireworks explode outside, loud and shaking the apartment building. The signal from the TV doesn't static. The generator doesn't kick on. The lights don't flicker. 

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Richie says, flipping open his phone to check the date. Eddie looks over his shoulder. ** _1/1/00_** blinks back at them both. “Nothing happened.” 

“I guess not,” Eddie says. His throat is dry. “That's good.” 

Richie looks at him, concerned and long-faced and, throwing back a handful of popcorn with butter-stained hands, he swallows before saying, “Yeah. Really good.” 

It's funny. All Eddie wanted, when he woke up this morning, was some approximation of this ending. He wanted to be able to walk into the insurance firm at nine in the morning and proclaim that all the safety nets were unnecessary and that it can be business as usual. He wanted to put his money back in the bank and get a fucking refund on at least one of his generators. That's all. And now he feels like he's sinking. But he smiles off-handedly and says, “Happy New Year, Richie.” 

“Yeah, Happy New Year, Eds." 

They sit there. Eddie leans in for a moment but leans back the second he realizes Richie hadn’t. Richie notices, then, and leans forward, and then back again with the same cue. They blink. Bobbing back and forth twice more, dodging and missing one another before they stop. 

“Should we...uh?” 

Eddie doesn't want to laugh. He does, though. Because it's only been a half-hour and they're back to fluttering fingertips and uneasy lurchings in the gut, and you'd think there'd be some kind of progress, apocalypse or not. He nods and says, “Yeah,” and kisses Richie square on the mouth. They stay there, foreheads touching, and - on the impulse - kiss once more. Twice for luck. Third time's the charm. 

Because it's New Year, a new millennium, and maybe nothing else in this world is new, but at least – it can feel like something might shift into something that looks new, something beautiful. 

Like Something - Some big beautiful incandescent Thing - _might_ be new. Like it might get the chance to be, if only the lights would go out. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed and have a happy New Year and new decade everyone! 
> 
> Title from from T.S Eliot's _The Hollow Men._


End file.
